Harlan Coben - Gone for Good

"I think so," I said. "So how do you create a fake identity?"

"Ah, I don't create them," Abe said with a big smile. "I use real ones."

"I don't follow."

Abe frowned at Squares. "I thought you said he worked the street."

"A long time ago," Squares said.

"Yeah, okay, let's see." Abe Goldberg turned back to me. "You saw that man upstairs. The one who came in after you."

"Yes."

"He looks unemployed, no? Probably homeless."

"I wouldn't know."

"Don't play politically correct with me. He looked like a vagrant, am I right?"

"I guess."

"But he's a person, see. He has a name. He had a mother. He was born in this country. And" he smiled and waved his hands theatrically "he has a social security number. He might even have a driver's license, maybe an expired one. No matter. As long as he has a social security number, he exists. He has an identity. You follow?"

"I follow."

"So let's say he needs a little money. For what, I don't want to know. But he needs money. What he doesn't need is an identity. He's out on the street, so what good is it doing him? It's not like he has a credit rating or owns land. So we run his name through this little computer here." He patted the top of the monitor. "We see if he has any outstanding warrants against him. If he doesn't and most don't then we buy his ID. Let's say his name is John Smith. And let's say you, Will, need to be able to check into hotels or whatever under a name other than your own."

I saw where he was heading. "You sell me his social security number and I become John Smith."

Abe snapped his fingers. "Bingo."

"But suppose we don't look alike."

"There's no physical descriptions associated with your social security number. Once you have it, you call up any bureau and you can get whatever paperwork you need. If you're in a rush, I have the equipment here to give you an Ohio driver's license. But it won't hold up under tough scrutiny. But the thing is, the identity will."

"Suppose our John Smith gets rousted and needs an ID."

"He can use it too. Heck, five people can use it at the same time. Who's going to know? Simple, am I right?"

"Simple," I agreed. "So Sheila came to you?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"What, two, three days ago. Like I said before, she wasn't our usual customer. Such a nice girl. So beautiful too."

"Did she tell you where she was going?"

Abe smiled and touched my arm. "Does this look like an ask-a-lot-of-questions business? They don't want to say and I don't want to know. You see, we never talk. Not a word. Sadie and I have our reputation, and like I said upstairs, loose lips can get you killed. You understand?"

"Yes."

"In fact, when Raquel first put out feelers, we didn't say boo. Discretion. That's what this business is about. We love Raquel. But we still said nothing. Zip, not a word."

"So what made you change your mind?"

Abe looked hurt. He turned to Squares, then back to me. "What, you think we're animals? You think we don't feel anything?"

"I didn't mean "

"The murder," he interrupted. "We heard what happened to that poor, lovely girl. It isn't right." He threw up his hands. "But what can I do? I can't go to the police, am I right? Thing is, I trust Raquel and Mr. Squares here. They're good men. They dwell in the dark but they shine a light. Like my Sadie and me, see?"

The door above us opened, and Sadie came down. "I've closed up," she said.

"Good."

"So where were you?" she asked him.

"I was telling him why we may be willing to talk."

"Okay."

Sadie Goldberg slowly felt her way down the stairs. Abe turned his owl eyes on me again and said, "Mr. Squares tells us that there is a little girl involved here."

"Her daughter," I said. "She's probably about twelve years old."

Sadie clucked a tsk-tsk. "You don't know where she is."

"That's right."

Abe shook his head. Sadie moved next to him, their bodies touching, somehow fitting together. I wondered how long they'd been married, if they had children, where they'd come from, how they came to these shores, how they ended up in this business.

"You want to know something?" Sadie said to me.

I nodded.

"Your Sheila. She had" she raised two fists in the air "a special something. A spirit about her. She was beautiful, of course, but there was something more. The fact that she's gone… we feel lessened. She came in and she looked so scared. And maybe the identity we gave her didn't hold up. Maybe that's why she's dead."

"So," Abe said, "we want to help." He wrote something down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. "The name we gave her was Donna White. That's the social security number. I don't know if it'll help you or not."

"And the real Donna White?"

"A homeless crack addict."

I stared down at the scrap of paper.

Sadie moved toward me and put a hand on my cheek. "You look like a nice man."

I looked up at her.

"Find that little girl," she said.

I nodded once and then again. Then I promised that I would.

Katy Miller was still shaking when she arrived at her house.

This can't be, she thought. It's a mistake. I got the name wrong.

"Katy?" her mother called out.

"Yeah."

"I'm in the kitchen."

"I'll be there in a little while, Mom."

Katy headed for the basement door. When her hand reached the knob, she stopped.

The basement. She hated to go down there.

You would think that after so many years, she'd be desensitized to the threadbare couch and water-stained carpet and so-old-it's-not-even-cable-ready television. She wasn't. For all her senses knew, her sister's body was still down there, bloated and decayed, the stench of death so thick it made it hard to swallow.

Her parents understood. Katy never had to do laundry. Her father never asked her to fetch his toolbox or get a fresh bulb from the storage room. If a task required a trip into these bowels, her mother and father tried to take it on for her.

But not this time. This time, she was on her own.

At the top of the stairs she flicked the light switch. One naked bulb the glass fixture had broken during the murder came to life. She crept down the stairs. She kept her line of vision up and over the couch and carpet and TV.

Why did they still live here?

It made little sense to her. When JonBenet was murdered, the Ramseys had moved across the country. But then again, everyone thought that they killed her. The Ramseys were probably running away from the stares of neighbors as much as the memory of their daughter's demise. That, of course, was not the case here.

But still, there was something about this town. Her parents had stayed. And so had the Kleins. Neither had been willing to surrender.

What did that mean?

She found Julie's trunk in the corner. Her father had put some kind of wooden crate under it in case of a flood. Katy flashed back and saw her sister packing for college. She remembered crawling into the trunk as Julie packed, pretending at first that the trunk was a protective fort and then, after that, pretending that Julie might pack her up too, so that they could go to college together.

There were boxes piled on the top. Katy removed them and put them in a corner. She examined the trunk's lock. There was no key, but all she needed was a flat edge. She found an old butter knife with the stored silver. She stuck it into the opening and turned. The lock fell open. She unsnapped the two clasps and slowly, like Van Helsing opening Dracula's coffin, she lifted the lid.

"What are you doing?"

Her mother's voice startled her. She leapt back.

Lucille Miller moved closer. "Isn't that Julie's trunk?"

"Jesus, Mom, you scared the hell out of me."

Her mother came closer. "What are you doing with Julie's trunk?"